‘What do you think, Mum?’ she asked, leaning back in her chair and holding the finished page to the light. ‘I bet you would have loved this recipe.’
She gave a small smile. Her mum would have tried Myrtle’s offering every which way; she’d have baked dozens of them with different variations until she had one she liked and then she would have continued to make that from memory for years. At least, she might have if she hadn’t been so unwell for the last decade of her life. But at least Cathy could have talked about it with her and they would have shared ideas and suggestions on how to make it better and they would have eaten the results together with the telly on in the background and a hot cup of tea. Small pleasures, but Cathy often thought it was strange that it was the smallest things she missed the most.
There was a few days until the next cookery club, but once the Facebook group was up and running and everyone who was likely to sign up had done so, she could ask people if they had recipes like Myrtle’s that they wanted to see preserved for posterity. Well, as much posterity as her little book offered. But it was an opportunity to share them and for others to get enjoyment from cooking them. For anyone not on the Facebook group, she could always ask Iris to put the word out, or else talk to them about it at the next class.
And then she started to think about Fleur’s idea of getting the finished recipe book printed by professionals, and the thought of seeing all those precious heirlooms on glossy pages made her more enthusiastic still.
She looked down again at her copy of Myrtle’s Christmas cake recipe and smiled. She couldn’t wait to see what gems might come her way in the next couple of weeks.
Strike while the iron’s hot, she thought, and went to fetch her phone from the living room to send Erica a text.
Just had a thought – I’d like to collect recipes from other people. Like people at the cookery club. I was thinking of adding them to my book so that they can share with others… if they want to, of course. What do you think? Do you think you can post about it in the new Facebook group?
Putting the phone to one side while she waited for Erica’s reply, she went to fill the kettle for a fresh cup of tea. She’d only just flicked the switch when her phone pinged.
Sounds like a lovely idea. Don’t you want to be on the Facebook group yourself? You could explain what you want better than me.
Cathy read the message again. Erica was probably right – she ought to do it herself. She’d withdrawn from social media to escape from the constant reminders that others were having a life denied her, but perhaps there was no need for that now.
Ok; I’ll do that. Thanks for setting it up x
It’s not that I don’t want to help, of course… x
I know that! Honestly you’re right and it’s fine. See you soon x
Goodnight, Cathy, see you soon x
Cathy put her phone down and went to get her old laptop. It was slow and clunky, but it would do for what she needed. Maybe if this took off and she started to use it a lot more, she’d treat herself to a newer one, as long as it wasn’t too expensive.
Once she was in she left a post explaining what she wanted to do and asking if anyone had recipes they wanted to bring in. Almost immediately replies began to appear. Most shocking was the fact that Myrtle was on Facebook – Cathy just hadn’t imagined her embracing technology in that way – and she replied first. She was thrilled that her Christmas cake had been a source of inspiration to Cathy and she said she could contribute lots more of her mother-in-law’s recipes. Beth replied saying she’d ask her mum, and Lindsey said she thought her grandma might have something.
Cathy was pleased to see that people were on board with her idea, but as she read through posts and comments on the relatively new group page, what warmed her heart even more was seeing people’s messages about how much they were loving the cookery club. They’d posted photos too, of family members enjoying the fruits of their labours or new things that they’d baked at home, having been inspired to try some of Cathy’s other dishes. She didn’t think she’d ever feel so valued and appreciated again. She’d often thought one of the greatest gifts her mother had given her was her love of baking because it had brought them so much pleasure as mother and daughter. But now she was beginning to realise that gift could keep on giving, even with her mother gone, through things like the cookery club and her recipe book, and the notion made her happier than she could have ever thought possible.
Seventeen
Cathy had stored the number for St Cuthbert’s office phone in her own contacts list, really just in case there ever came a time when she needed to let someone know last minute that she might not make a session of cookery club, fully expecting never to have to use it. So she was surprised when she was woken the next morning by her phone ringing on the bedside table and the number showing on caller ID. So much for having a rare sleep-in.
‘Hello?’ she answered, her voice still groggy and strange from having just woken.
‘Oh, Cathy… I haven’t woken you, have I?’
‘No, no… of course not. I was about to get up anyway.’ Cathy pushed herself to sit and leaned against the headboard. ‘What’s wrong, Iris?’
‘Well,’ Iris began, her tone becoming suddenly officious, ‘it’s just that we usually have two handheld blenders…’
‘Right…’
‘And because we were doing the cookery club we used petty cash to buy two more…’
‘OK…’
‘But today there are only three in the cupboard.’
‘Oh.’ Cathy frowned. Was Iris insinuating that Cathy had something to do with this? ‘Didn’t you check they were all there when we cleaned up after cookery club?’
‘I thought Dora had done that.’
‘Have you asked Dora?’
‘I phoned her before I phoned you. She wasn’t very helpful, to be honest – a bit rude.’
Cathy glanced at the clock by her bed. It had just gone seven thirty and if Iris had called Dora before she’d called Cathy, then it was no wonder Dora hadn’t been very happy about it. ‘But she hadn’t counted the blenders?’
‘She thought you or I had done it.’
‘And I thought one of you would have done it. Sorry, Iris.’
‘So you don’t know where the missing one might be?’
‘Sorry, but I haven’t a clue.’
‘Oh dear,’ Iris said, sounding stricken. ‘Oh dear…’
‘I could come down to help you look.’
‘Oh, would you? The vicar won’t be happy if he finds out we’ve lost it – petty cash is hard to come by, you know, and we can’t be seen to be frittering it away on things that we’re going to lose.’
‘No, I understand that. Listen, I’ll come to help you find it – I can’t see that it can be far away – maybe it’s just been put in the wrong cupboard or something.’
‘I’ve looked in all the cupboards,’ Iris said.